


Psyche

by hypocriteinapocket



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:52:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1662029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypocriteinapocket/pseuds/hypocriteinapocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a therapist working for the FBI, Clarice Diaz has worked hard to get to where she is today. So when she is called in to do a few sessions for a team working in a top-secret black site after the death of one of it's members, she couldn't be happier. However, her clearance only gets her so far, and her files are covered in those awful redacted black lines, leaving her to fill and the blanks and make do with what she has. And she's going to need all the help she can get, because these agents are wrestling with ghosts that she can't even begin to comprehend.<br/>-<br/>A post-season final fic, so if you haven't finished the series, read at your own risk! This is mostly an analysis on the character's thoughts at the end of the season, with a focus on their relationship with a deceased character. Trying to ease the pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever fic. I hope I don't butcher it too terribly for you all! Please, constructive criticism is more than welcomed, it is begged for. Let me know what I did well, what I didn't do well, and hopefully I can fix it next time around. 
> 
> You can access my tumblr at hypocriteinapocket.tumblr.com

Although Clarice didn’t consider herself an especially arrogant woman, she knew her strengths; and her job was one of them. She supposed it was a mixture of hard work -years spent over psychology textbooks and theories- and an innate talent. Besides, she wouldn’t be working with the FBI if she was merely mediocre. No, she was fairly confident in her abilities: and that was what she reminded herself as she read over the files, waiting. 

This was going to be the height of her career. She was cleared to work at one of those super-secret-hush-hush black sites that were only whispered to exist. Completely confidential. And that was the problem. 

“What do you mean- I can’t see the full case file?” She had asked, convinced it had been a trick of the ears. 

“How am I supposed to carry out a therapy session without knowing the full details?” 

Her boss cleared his throat, and shifted his skinny, too-tight tie. 

“Sorry Clair. That’s the rules. Apparently the stuff they’re dealing with over there is of the highest security clearance. Even I don’t know the full details. The head’s have seen your work though, and they’re confident that you can pull this off, regardless. You’ll still have a little bit of information. Here’s are the three files of the people who you’ll be working with - yes, there are quite a few of things redacted, don’t give me that look - and your schedule. Good luck, you’ll be fine.” 

And with that, she was rushed out, left to prepare with what little information she was allowed clutched between her arms. She had gone back to her desk, and cleared a neat swath from the mess to set down the files. She had worked late into the night for three days now, and she supposed she was as ready as she would ever be. As the clock clicked down the last few minutes till her first session, she pulled out the file of her first patient.


	2. RESSLER, DONALD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of Clair's patients arrives, and the line of ghosts behind him are trailing out the door.

She nearly jumped when the man walked in. He looked fairly put together, but when she moved closer to greet him, she saw the imperfections: a skewed tie, baggy eyes, a stain on the cuff. He had seen better days. But she still pushed on a professional yet comforting smile as she shook his hand. 

“Hello. I’m Clarice Diaz. You can call me whatever makes you comfortable. Here, take a seat.” She ushered him over to a couch opposite of her own seat, and waited for him to become adjusted before she sat down herself. 

“Now before we get started-” 

“Sorry, but before we get to anything, there is one thing I don’t get. What are you doing here?” 

Although his sudden outburst was unexpected, it certainly wasn’t the most aggressive thing that someone had said to her during a therapy session. Something about having a strange woman across from you, delving into the subconscious made people a little tense. With a sigh, Clair folded her hands neatly into her lap and leaned forward, holding the man’s angry blue eyes with her own calm brown ones. 

“I was sent here to talk to you about the loss of someone from your team. Meera Malik.” The name made the man tense, and he looked away, and she took his lack of a response as a signal she was allowed to continue. 

“I know that as an agent you have probably known a few others who have died. It is an unfortunate fact of the service. However the emotional effects are still very real. They’re human. We relate and feel empathy for those close to us, and there is nothing wrong with that.” He was staring out the window, his hand blocking view of his jaw, but Clarice knew he was listen. She could tell, already, that this was going to be one of her more difficult cases. It always was, with these more advanced agents. They always assumed themselves desensitized, accustomed to the trials of this job, but they never were. They couldn’t be. There was no way a well-adjusted, mentally-sound person could be accustomed to death, because there was always that hope that perhaps they might still live yet. People believe in what they can see, and that was the problem with an absence. There was nothing there to see. And from what she had read in his files, this man was full absences. 

“Were you two close? What was she like?” Clair didn’t feel the need to restate who they were talking about. Now that she said why she was, the presence of this ghost was heavy in the room. 

The man barked a laugh, completely without humor, and finally faced back towards her and sunk deeper into the couch, still without meeting her eye.

“I suppose. As anyone on a team would be. Meera ... was different. That’s one way to put it.” He laughed again, but it was softer this time. Kinder. 

“Not in a bad way, though. She was strong, independent, smart. Even if she could be a pain in the ass sometime. Most of the time.”

“She had her own quirks, though. Secrets. She was CIA, so I guess that was pretty obvious. She had a different boss.” Clair frowned as he spoke, and scribbled down ‘FBI vs. CIA’ onto her own notepad, her own quick shorthand. That was something she found extremely strange about this case, something that wasn’t explained. The deceased wasn’t even FBI. She had heard of inter-departmental cases, but the two never exactly got along all the time, and such cases were rare. But this woman was working on this case almost from the start. 

“Did you feel like you couldn’t trust her...?” 

“Meera? Of course I could- I mean, no. She was still a part of our team. Sure, she had a different boss, but we still worked on the same things. We went through hell together. Fought together. Do you know what it’s like, working on something like this case? Your teammates are the only ones you can talk to. Really talk to. This case is probably the biggest thing in my life right now, but I couldn’t even tell-” Her broke off suddenly; he’d said too much, and he regretted it. She watched as his teeth ground together, the muscle working under the skin on his jaw. She had guessed what he was about to say- that, thankfully, had been in the file, even if all the details hadn’t been there. 

“No,” Clair agreed. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be.” Her sympathetic tone rewarded her with an irritated look from Agent Ressler, which she ignored. As ridiculous and sugary as it sounded sometimes, there were some things people needed to hear every once in a while.

“Losing so many people so close to you has to be difficult.” It was a fairly dangerous move, but she got the reaction she was looking for when he looked up quickly and stared, scrutinizing her silently. She could tell he was wondering just how much she knew, how much she was going to push about the loss of his girlfriend, his old partners. 

The answer was, not much. On either account. Her job here wasn’t to solve all the problems in a half hour session. That wasn’t possible. To experience this much death in only a few weeks required time to heal. Her job was simply to set them on the right track, make sure nothing drastic was going to occur. Sometimes all it took was a little prodding to open up the hole and to start a trickle out of emotion that was bottled up inside. But it wouldn't be enough for her to do it alone.

“But it’s important that when faced with so much loss, you have a support to lean on. I’m not going to preach to you about how she died for her country and it was a sacrifice that needed to be made, because sometimes it’s hard to see how any sacrifice would be worth it. However, talking to people will help you come to terms with it all.” 

“I don’t have many left.” His voice was dead, flat, and Clair felt a twinge of pain in her chest, because she knew just how true those words might be. “And I’ve spent my entire life on this case. I don’t have that any friends outside of this job.”

"Well, what about those in your job? You mentioned before that you feel closest to those you work with. Do you have anyone you could talk to in the rest of your team? Or someone who knows what your going through? The bonds between teammates can be unusually strong. Surely there is someone else who you trust." He regarded her words thoughtfully. It was a more difficult question than he thought, she could see. His eyebrows were knitted, and he was positioned awkwardly on the couch. Like something didn't sit right with him, made him uncomfortable. How strange must his life be, she wondered, that the idea of friend had become something confusing and intangible?

"Maybe." He answered finally, drawing the words out slowly, as he tried to form a sentence. She could tell there was a lot he was holding back, not telling her. Either because he was keeping himself guarded or because it was a part of that top secret she wasn't supposed to know, she couldn't tell. It could have been a bit of both.

"Maybe I do. I guess." The corners of his lips turned up slightly, and although it wasn't quite a smile, it was certainly the beginning of something. And right now, Clarice would take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if I completely butchered his character, I swear I tried not to. He gave me the most trouble. Hopefully the rest of them will be easier! 
> 
> Comments and criticisms always welcome!


End file.
